


A Time Between Times

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: The Grand Canyon is more than just a jagged rut in the ground.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: A Time Between Times  
Author Impertinence  
Rating: Adult  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: The Grand Canyon is more than just a jagged rut in the ground.  
Notes: Coda to 2.09, which means there are spoilers. I started writing this immediately after the episode, abandoned it as a lost cause, then abruptly finished it tonight while in the middle of 13,000 words of still unfinished J/J. Weird.  
  
  
  
Arizona is a land of harsh beauty, of orange dirt and dark red sunrises. The sky is a brittle blue that always gives way to dusty sunrises and sunsets that look like the end of the world.  
  
The desert is too hot during the day. It makes the air shimmer until Sam feels like he's not quite breathing, like the dry air filling his lungs is no more real than the pools of water he sometimes thinks he sees on the flat, caked dirt beside the road.  
  
He half-expects the Impala to break down; logically, it should. It's too hot for even the best of cars to be running, and the Impala isn't the best, no matter what Dean says.  
  
But feet turn into miles and they're still driving, crawling across the desert. The air conditioner's been busted for awhile now, and Sam can feel drops of sweat soak his hair, sting the cut on his neck, slip into his collar and down his back.   
  
“I hate Arizona,” Dean announces halfway through.  
  
“You're the one who said we had to find that monster thing in Mexico first.”  
  
“Woulda eaten six hundred babies if we hadn't.”  
  
“True.” It's too damn hot to even argue.  
  
“...we bought a tent, right?”  
  
“From the Navajo man, yeah.”  
  
“Good.” And Dean's leaning against the seat, falling asleep. After awhile he turns towards Sam a bit, chin sliding on the leather. His cheek will stick, but Sam doesn't wake him up; he's practically cuddling the car, which means the sleep is good.  
  
||  
  
They camp on the side of the road, just stop and pitch the tent and crawl in. It's stuffy at first, but then the moon comes up, round and full, and the air grows cool.  
  
The tent's weave is tight, but the moon is persistently bright, and after about ten minutes of staring up at the roof, Sam's eyes are adjusted.  
  
“Dean? You 'wake?”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“If I'm—if you're—“  
  
“Spit it out, Sam.”  
  
“What if we're _not_?”  
  
It's a quiet, desperate question, and Sam addresses it not just to Dean but to the darkness, the tent, the stars glinting coolly far above.  
  
He's not prepared for the arm Dean flings over him. “Shut up,” Dean says, “and scoot over. It's fucking cold in here.”  
  
That's not an answer in every way except the ones that count. Sam lets himself give in, rolling over and folding himself up against Dean.  
  
A shadow passes over the tent. Sam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, hurling himself into sleep.  
  
||  
  
The harsh, dry heat of the desert morning wakes Sam up almost immediately. By the time he's managed to nudge Dean awake with bribes of chocolate and partially hydrogenated poison, the blazing sun has burned any remnant of moisture away—except for the sweat that returns, persistent, once again plastering Sam's hair to his head.  
  
“Lemme drive,” Dean says, closing the trunk with a grunt.  
  
Sam shakes his head. “I got it.”  
  
“Sam...”  
  
“Just. Let me, okay?” Driving's not a very good distraction, but it's better than nothing, and Sam—right now, Sam needs it.   
  
There's a long moment of silence, and for a second Sam thinks Dean'll whack him upside the head and stuff him in the trunk for daring to think that he, Sam, can drive Dean's baby for two days straight. But then Dean nods slowly.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. But I pick the music.”  
  
On the whole, Sam almost thinks he'd prefer the trunk.  
  
||  
  
“Grand Canyon” is kind of a mouthful. It's more than that, actually—it's a legend, an icon. What Zeppelin means to Dean, the Canyon means to the rest of America.  
  
Except apparently Dean's a little more in tune to the Bye Bye Miss American Pie side of America than Sam thought, because they're twenty miles away from the campsite still and Dean is literally bouncing in his seat.  
  
“Dude, cut it out.”  
  
“It's the Grand Canyon. The _Grand fucking Canyon_.”  
  
“And you're in a _fucking Impala_ with your _fucking brother._ Seriously, man, cool it. You'll bust the seat, the way you're going.”  
  
Maybe it's the tone—more College Guy than actual Sam. Or maybe (and this is kind of a horrifying thought) it's just that Dean's taking the bit about the car seriously. Either way, he grumbles and does still, settling for tapping his fingers on the hot leather and drawing pictures on the window with his sweat.  
  
He's still acting like a six-year-old, but it's familiar—comforting, even, and in this strange place of sand and scrub and blue, blue sky, Sam needs that as much as he needs the bottle of water they stop to buy, right before he turns the corner and they're suddenly there, staring at what looks an awful lot like eternity.  
  
||  
  
“It's....”  
  
“Amazing.”  
  
He can't stop staring. Normally Dean would probably make fun of him for it—but Dean's even more absorbed than he is.  
  
“How can it be so _huge?_ ” Dean asks, wonder in his voice.  
  
Sam can't resist such an obvious opening. “Size isn't the only thing that matters, you know,” he says teasingly.  
  
Dean snorts and jostles Sam roughly. “You know what I mean,” he says.  
  
The sun's setting over the canyon, setting some parts ablaze and casting others in shadows too deep for Sam to properly see. Dean's leaning on the Impala, his arms behind him, face softened a bit by the wonder of what's in front of them.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says, not looking away from his brother. “I do.”  
  
||  
  
They've only done it once or twice, and it's always been hard and fast, angry words and bruising bites. But the air is thinner down here, easier to move through, and the nighttime heat seems to melt even the worst of their furious confusion.  
  
They're not fucking, they're _making love_ , which is as moronic a term as Sam's ever thought of to describe his brother riding his dick, but there's starlight and a blanket and Sam hasn't felt this since Jess, since fires and engagement rings and cookies on the table.  
  
“Dean,” he says, his voice broken in the darkness. “Dean, I need. _Please._ ”  
  
But instead of giving him faster, harder, Dean stills.  
  
“Argh,” Sam says, feeling strangled.  
  
“Shut up.” Dean's panting, shoulders jerking back and forth. The moon throws harsh shadows across his chest, and sweat drips down from the amulet still hanging around his neck. “Sam, I gotta tell you—“  
  
Dean of all people, wanting to have a heart-to-heart during sex. _Fuck that,_ Sam thinks, and reaches up. He grabs Dean's necklace, pulling him down.  
  
“Just. Let's just do this, okay?”  
  
And then he's brushing his nose against Dean's, closing his eyes and finding Dean's mouth, wrapping his arms around Dean's chest and pulling down, pushing up with his hips.  
  
Dean's groan goes straight into Sam's mouth. Sam lets the corners of his mouth quirk up as he does it again, rubbing his heel against Dean's calf.  
  
“Gonna be quiet now?” he asks, brushing a kiss against Dean's jawbone.  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Gotta tell you,” he says. “You. I. Oh, _fuck._ ”  
  
Sam smiles and runs a finger down Dean's dick, trapped between their bodies, again. “You?”  
  
“You're _mine,_ ” Dean says, and it's the intensity is 100o of sun-heat pounding down killing everything soft or gentle for miles. “I don't care what. What you are.”  
  
And he moves, tightening around Sam, shifting until he can yank on Sam's hair and kiss him again, massaging Sam's tongue with his own. “You're my brother.” Choked out against Sam's skin, and Sam—opens his mouth just in time to see the terrible, torn look on Dean's face. Ragged scars that will never be visible in daylight are written all over him now, until Dean drops his face into the curve of Sam's shoulder.  
  
“And. And I _love you._ ”  
  
Ripped out of him—rushing water carving, carving, for a thousand thousand years, implacable and painstaking. Sam lets Dean kiss him, kisses back desperately, and wonders how many times Dean's tried to say those words.  
  
It's not enough. It'll never be enough, their words and their actions; the demons will keep coming and the river will keep carving until it's dried to a trickle, until it's faded in the memories of even the oldest of human memory, and they'll never reconcile themselves with God. Not really.  
  
Dean pushes down and Sam thrusts up, and they both hold on as best as they can.  
  
||  
  
Once when Sam was thirteen, he got himself seduced by a siren. It was a complete accident, but Dean and Dad both saw him chasing after the naked man, yelling things that Sam still gets red to remember.  
  
Waking up the next day had felt like waking up with all his skin stripped off. He swore to himself that he'd never do something that stupid, that _revealing_ , again.  
  
Waking up the next morning feels like that. Dean's got red marks on his ass that Sam doesn't even remember making, and his necklace is clutched in Dean's hand. Sam can feel his bruised lips, and his chest has ten small, dark bruises that can only be fingerprints.  
  
Dean's poked him awake so they can watch the sunrise, of all things; Sam wants to punch his lights out, but Dean doesn't say anything, just pulls him out of their tent.  
  
The sun rises like it's bleeding, stark red and deep oranges staining the sky, making the Canyon look even deeper.  
  
Dean takes a deep breath, chest expanding. Sam closes his eyes and opens his mouth to the cool, dry desert breeze.  
  
Somehow, their hands entangle. Dean'll mock Sam—or maybe Sam'll mock Dean—for it later.  
  
_Later._  
  
Right now, at least, that hazy time exists.  
  
||  
  
End  
  
||  
 


End file.
